


Routine

by days4daisy



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Extra Treat, M/M, Season/Series 04, ToT: Chocolate Box, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-23 21:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Jim is pushing his luck by being here. But he has a large pepperoni from Vincenzo’s with him, and a six-pack of Harvey’s favorite beer. It should be enough of a peace offering.





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tunglo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunglo/gifts).



Jim is pushing his luck by being here. But he has a large pepperoni from Vincenzo’s with him, and a six-pack of Harvey’s favorite beer. It should be enough of a peace offering.

But two minutes have passed; Jim is still standing in Harvey’s hallway. Rows of rusting door knockers look on in judgment, and one overhead light keeps flickering off and on. Harvey fills the open doorway in a t-shirt, boxers, and an unimpressed scowl.

Jim offers a sheepish smile and lifts the six-pack for Harvey’s inspection. “Want me to leave?” Harvey doesn’t look at the beer. He looks at Jim’s face, and his brand new shiner. Purple and red rim his left eye, and his mouth is swollen from getting decked in the jaw. Lucky shot, split his bottom lip open.

Jim knew he would rile Harvey up if he showed his face tonight, but he can't lie - he wants to be here. Crazy as it is, he looks forward to Harvey's temper. It's comfortable, safe, the most reliable thing in Gotham.

Harvey huffs and stands aside, and Jim bites back a grin as he passes his partner-turned-captain. Harvey's apartment is like a second home. Off-work beer nights, midnight duty call, big game on TV. But most are nights like tonight; Jim sulking in with a new set of scars, Harvey ready to go on the offensive.

Jim sets the pizza and six-pack on the kitchen counter. It’s cleaner than usual. Nothing in the sink, no stack of unopened mail or tied garbage bag on the floor. By Gotham standards, Harvey’s apartment complex is pretty quiet. It’s not the prettiest building, but the block is easygoing. No music throbbing through the walls or shouting from the hallway.

Jim braces himself against the counter. “If I had more time-”

“You think I let you in to listen to this b.s.?” Harvey grabs the pizza and beer and exits the kitchen.

Jim shrugs. He deserved that.

He follows Harvey out to the living room, where Harvey is already helping himself to a slice. The game is on low, green grass and muted cheers from the wide screen that Harvey refuses to mount on the wall. Harvey pauses mid-chomp to pluck his glasses off a couch cushion.

“Bruce was in danger,” Jim says. “If you were in my shoes-”

“You always say that,” Harvey cuts in, mid-chew, “but I wouldn’t do the same thing. I wouldn’t duck out on you, no friggen clue where I was going. Bunch of dead bodies in Arkham, I heard - how many this time? Four, five?”

“They were working for R’as al Ghul-”

“Or Penguin, or Nygma, or Falcone, or your old pal Barbara. They’re always working for somebody!” Harvey glares, pizza slice folded and finished in a large bite. He licks grease off his fingers. “I gotta be honest with you, Jim,” he says, “I’m kinda done with this.”

Jim crosses arms over his chest, rising to the bait like always. “You’re done, huh? What, you firing me now?”

Harvey twists the cap off a beer and allows himself a healthy swallow. “I’m not firing you,” he says. “But this? Paying me off with food n’ booze like that makes everything kosher? It doesn’t.”

“Look.” Jim sits on the opposite end of the couch, holding Harvey’s stare all the way down. “I should have told you. I should have called you at least. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.” Harvey jabs his bottle at Jim. “If you were, you wouldn’t do this every time I turn around. You don’t trust me, I get it.”

Jim frowns. “Harv-”

“You don’t trust anyone at the GCPD. If I’m lumped in with that lot now, so be it. I know you’ll keep doing your own thing, and doing it, and doing it until it kills you. And that’s fine.” Harvey looks tired, done. “But you gotta quit coming here like what we got is any more than that.”

Jim shakes his head. Harvey sounds crazy to him, he's not making sense. “Trust? Come on, you know I trust you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Harvey just closes his eyes and tips back his beer. Jim watches it bubble in the bottle, bobbing into Harvey’s waiting mouth.

Yeah, Jim may have screwed this one up. He had time in the car to text Harvey, Alfred was driving after all. But Bruce was in trouble, Harvey has to see that.

“I already ask too much of you,” Jim admits as he sinks against the couch. It fits like an old friend against his back, he’s spent so much time here on this couch, in this apartment. “You’re captain now. You can’t get wrapped in all this stuff.”

“Bullshit.” Harvey mutters. “I ain’t a kid like Bruce Wayne. How about you let me decide what I get wrapped up in, huh?”

Jim rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean-”

“You never mean anything, do you?” Harvey pushes himself up with a grunt and leaves Jim on the couch for the kitchen. He returns with an ice pack, and tosses it in Jim’s lap. “For your goddamn face,” he says.

Jim bites his tongue against his aggravation. It's boiling up, hot, but Harvey has earned this one. Chewing on a cheek, Jim holds the compress to his eye. “I said I’m sorry,” he grumbles. “I meant that.”

The couch sinks when Harvey tosses his weight back down. "I’m real tempted to pull a Jim Gordon one of these days.” He digs into the pizza box and pulls out a fresh slice. 

This can’t be going anywhere good. Jim steels himself, tries to keep his voice casual. “Oh?”

“You know, disappear. Not tell you where I’m going, what case I’m working on, if I’m even on a case at all. Maybe I’m tracking down a hunch. Don’t want your pretty face slowing me down.”

Jim quirks a brow. “Me, slow _you_ down?”

“I'm just saying.” Harvey waves the pizza slice for emphasis. “Might be a few hours, a few days, a few weeks, who knows? You won’t, cause I ain’t calling, or texting, or giving you a heads up that I got a lead I’m this close to cracking. No sense dragging you into it. My business, right?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“So then,” Harvey continues, “I’ll show back up one day. Couple bruises. Bullet hole here or there. Someone may even take a swing at this sweet mug.” He motions towards his own face with one hand, feeds himself pizza with the other. “But it’ll be cool, I just didn’t have time to call. Water under the bridge.”

Jim pushes the compress tighter against his face. It takes effort to swallow the sour taste rising up his throat. “You’re pissed, I get it.”

“I’m not pissed. I’m done.” Harvey polishes off his latest slice and screws the top off a second beer. He downs a hearty train of swallows and scrubs his wet mouth against the back of his hand. “The beer ain’t cold enough,” he adds.

Lowering the ice pack, Jim eases towards the center of the couch. Jim raises a conciliatory hand, mindful of Harvey's wariness. “I should have told you.”

“Yeah well,” Harvey mutters, “too late for that, isn’t it?”

“Guess so.” Jim tosses the compress on the coffee table. He warms his hand against his jeans as Harvey tucks his empty bottle into its old place in the package. “I want to be here,” he says. “That has to count for something.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

Jim takes Harvey’s hand in answer, lacing their fingers together. He examines Harvey’s hand in his own; older, thicker, rough knuckles but warm. Harvey snorts when Jim urges their joined palms into his lap. “I trust you, Harv,” he says. “I don’t always agree with you, but I trust you.”

Harvey mumbles, “Guess that has to be good enough.” He scowls at Jim. “You're always coming in here with a busted lip or broken nose. Makes it worse.”

“I’m fine." Jim's thumb scales the back of Harvey’s hand.

“You’re fine, huh?” Harvey sounds skeptical, so Jim shifts forward. He’s careful when he covers Harvey’s lips with his own, slow, feeling him out. Harvey scoffs under him, but he doesn’t shift away. Jim pushes his luck, leans into his space. Harvey responds after a stoic moment. His thumb crosses the bruises blossoming on Jim's jaw. Jim cringes at the pull of the scab on his lip.

Harvey holds his chin between hand and forefinger. “You’re a mess,” he mutters, a seed of affection under frustration.

Jim smiles. “You’re used to it.”

“Bet I am, you bastard.” Harvey huffs, stands, and pulls Jim by their still-connected hands towards the bedroom. “Come on. Let’s see what else they did to you.”

*The End*


End file.
